


For Your Eyes Only

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, First Time, M/M, PWP, Sibling Incest, Voyeurism, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:25:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He himself had cast rather a lot of furtive looks at Sherlock’s hands at dinner yesterday evening, admiring their luminous paleness curled around the antique silver cutlery. As usual Mycroft had taken great pains not to let his gaze travel any higher. His eyes had yearned to survey the final destination of the crystal water glass held by Sherlock’s slender fingers as it made the journey from table surface to his lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Your Eyes Only

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 30 Day Holmescest (er, OTP) Porn Challenge. As this is about Sherlock and Mycroft I didn’t follow the rules. Obviously. I combined three prompts in this fic: 17. Masturbation, 22. Public/semi-public seks and 30. Voyeurism.
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful stardust_made. Thanks to her help and advice this became a much better fic. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course.

In front of the Aga, Cook was lording it over various pots and pans of different sizes like a good witch stirring her magical healing potions. Wonderful breakfast fragrances wriggled themselves up Mycroft’s nose as he entered her kitchen. Freshly baked bread first and foremost, but beneath that mouth-watering aroma hung the scent of her rightfully famous steak-and-kidney pie mingling nicely with her equally wondrous bread-and-butter pudding. The whole onslaught on the olfactory senses was carefully built up, and was supported by the smell of freshly brewed strong coffee to boot.

One of the ovens was opened, from which a tray of white rolls had been pulled out and set on a rack to cool. Wiping her hands on her apron Cook turned to a bowl on her right and started cracking eggs over it. Taking great pains not to make a sound Mycroft tiptoed towards the stout elderly woman. He clasped her by the shoulders and pressed a kiss on her soft plump cheek, close to the (frankly atrocious) fake pearl ear clip that adorned her ear beneath the grey curls.

She jumped as he had known she would. “Good morning, Cook,” he greeted her.

“Oh my, Mycroft,” she uttered, dropping an egg, and clutching unconsciously at her chest. “You naughty boy,” she proceeded to scold him. “It was all right you surprising me like that when you were five or fifteen, but you’re twenty-five now so you should know better.”

Mycroft laughed. “I do apologise. But you should try and stop leaping in the air in such a delightful manner whenever I pull that trick on you. Really, watching you jolt like that is such a good sight that you’re simply asking for it.”

“Well, I’m glad to amuse you, but let me tell you it takes another ten days of my life each time you scare me like that, and you’re no better than a silly schoolboy. Really, Mycroft.” She attempted to frown at him, but the affectionate expression of her face undermined her intention. “Now, I suppose you want some coffee.”

“Only if I won’t inconvenience you, Cook.”

“Well, you know where to find it. There’s a small thermos in that cupboard next to the cutting block in case you’d like to take some up with you. Shall I butter you a roll as well?”

“Mmm, yes please, with some marmalade. You’ve outdone yourself with the marmalade this year.”

“I’m no bread roll, Mycroft Holmes. I don’t need buttering up.”

“I’m sorry to hear you say so, for I could definitely eat up one your size.”

Laughing, she smacked him lightly on the cheek. “You’re terrible,” she said. “And now I want you gone from my kitchen. I’ve got work to do.”

She handed him a small tray with two rolls on a plate next to a cup in a saucer. He added the thermos flask, brushed her cheek for a thank-you-kiss, and walked out of the kitchen.

Taking the steps two at a time he headed up the servant’s stairs. Upstairs in the hall a merry fire was blazing away in the big hearth. He made for the yellow drawing room to find the fire had been lighted there as well, and the curtains pulled aside. Outside the darkness of the night still reigned. His reflection hovered undecided in the window panes of the French doors for a moment until he came to a decision and aimed for the comfy chair half-hidden behind the potted palm in the farthest corner of the room.

The newspapers were already neatly spread out on the side table next to the hearth. Mycroft chose _The Times_ and settled himself in what had always been one of his favourite spots in his parental home. These stolen hours of peace and quiet were a mental necessity to help him make it through a week in a house filled to the brim with the family and friends his parents invited each year to celebrate the Christmas season. 

He had consumed his rolls and sat sipping his coffee while absorbed in an article on the alarming decline of the lifespan of the average Russian male since the fall of the USSR, when he was disturbed by the sound of a high, whinnying snigger answered by a squeal of laughter.

Two girls dressed in riding garb entered the room. Mycroft shrunk back in his chair in the hope he wouldn’t be noticed by his cousins Gwendolyn and Annabelle, sixteen-year-old twins who had to be the silliest girls alive. All they had ever been interested in were horses, whether it was pampering them or riding them. The only answer one got when addressing one of the girls was a fit of hysterical giggles. Their father, Mycroft’s Uncle Lionel, stated they weren’t able to spend ten minutes conversing in a rational manner—an assessment Mycroft silently concurred with. In order to retain his wife’s mental equilibrium as well as his own, Uncle Lionel had sent off the girls to boarding school. The school fees were exorbitant, and so far the school hadn’t booked any results with regard to the lessening of general folly displayed by the twins, but Uncle Lionel and Aunt Margaret were at least spared the daily agony of having their dinner disrupted by excessive bouts of merriment about subjects beyond the comprehension of any sane human being. 

Being the perfect hostess Mummy had arranged with the nearby stables for the girls to be collected at an early hour every morning for a day of riding, cleaning the stalls and cuddling with horses and ponies to their heart’s content. This arrangement was of an enormous advantage to all parties concerned. The girls wearied themselves out so thoroughly they didn’t have much to say at dinner, and retired to their room straight afterwards. Perhaps even more important was the fact that the other guests were spared the “pleasure” of their company for most of the day.

“No, you never. Eugh, that’s so wrong!” one of them screeched. Mycroft had never bothered to find out which one was Gwendolyn and which one Annabelle so he couldn’t determine who was responsible for nearly rendering his ear drum asunder.

“You’re just jealous that you didn’t have my dream. He’s totally DDG, you can’t deny that, and he’s bound to be a phenomenal shag. I’d prefer doing the nasty with him over that cockroach Charles Witherfield any day. How can you stand getting off with him?”

Mycroft sat up straight in his chair upon hearing that. The thought of one of his sixteen-year-old cousins _getting off_ with someone was rather unpleasant. He had to concede that at school he had been doing little else in the few hours left to him to spend as he saw fit – Nicholas Mede’s flowing long back flashed up in front of his eyes. The dark jumble of curls bouncing on his nape in rhythm with Mycroft’s thrusts…But they had been _boys_. That girls might have the same inclinations at that age was a highly unappealing idea. However, maybe that was due to Mycroft’s lack of interest in the female sex in general, as some brief experimenting at university had established beyond any reasonable doubt.

The twins had collapsed on the sofa and now lay swishing their riding crops with a languid demonstration of profound ennui.

“At least Charles Witherfield isn’t a sissy.”

“Well, Sherlock’s neither.” 

In his corner Mycroft nearly let the paper drop. They were discussing _his brother_!

“Duh, ‘course he is. He is a _public school boy_ , you slag. They’re all fairies, organising massive wanking parties in the dorms, spraying each other with spunk and licking it off afterwards.”

“Eugh, that’s disgusting.”

Mycroft shared the opinion, though his objection wavered more towards the language the girls were using in discussing the subject. Apparently their range of interests had widened to some extent, but Mycroft wasn’t quite convinced Uncle Lionel and Aunt Margaret would applaud these recent developments. He contemplated making his presence known to stop the stupid girls’ sordid conversation, but realised this would only lead to him being subjugated to an inordinate amount of squawking. The past few weeks he had had to correct the Head of his Department a few times, and found himself quite up to that unpleasant task, but the thought of willingly exposing himself to one of his teenage cousins’ stints of nervous giggling made him shudder and resolve to remain silent. 

“See?” the one who was _doing the nasty_ with the unfortunate Charles Witherfield continued, “I’m sure he’s the queen arranging it all, getting off with half the school. Have you looked at him? He’s got arse bandit written all over him. Jesus!”

She yawned loudly without bothering to cover her mouth with her hand. “It’s just horrid Aunt Elizabeth ordered that car so early every day. She did it just to spite us, the stupid bitch. It’s not even half past seven yet.”

Inside Mycroft’s breast outrage over the obscene epithet that had just been allotted to his beloved mother battled to the fore with the unsavoury urge to discover what else they might have to say about their cousin. Inadvertently complying with his wish the other one ignored her sibling’s complaints and kept to the object of her interest: “You can’t deny he’s screaming sexy. Those curls, and those eyes, and he has the most amazing hands, those fingers … Christ almighty, imagine those fingers rubbing your clit.”

The girl might have been an eminent example of crassness and the sad decline of the female virtues, but she had a good eye, Mycroft had to give her that. He himself had cast rather a lot of furtive looks at Sherlock’s hands at dinner yesterday evening, admiring their luminous paleness curled around the antique silver cutlery. As usual Mycroft had taken great pains not to let his gaze travel any higher. His eyes had yearned to survey the final destination of the crystal water glass held by Sherlock’s slender fingers as it made the journey from table surface to his lips.

The one that was less susceptible to Sherlock’s charms started prattling once more. “He’s one hell of a dishy fucker to look at, but he’s as queer as they come, and he’s our cousin. Jesus fucking Christ, you want to have it off with our _cousin_! You’re soooooo sick.”

“Oh come on, loads of people marry their cousins. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not like he’s my brother.”

“Yuck, that’s even more gross, you perv.”

Sweat was forming on Mycroft’s brow. He wished fervently for the stables car to arrive and deliver him from a conversation that was veering dangerously close to an abyss within him he fought hard to avoid. 

“I don’t care,” Sherlock’s admirer went on relentlessly. “If he walked into this room and threw me on the floor, then shagged me senseless right in front of the whole family, I would end up in a puddle of goo.”

“Whooaa, you’ve definitely lost it! Getting fucked in front of Uncle Richard, oh oh oh, you’re such a dirty little slut! You’d only end up with Sherlock’s cum all over you, as he wouldn’t want to shoot it up your twat. He _might_ let you get your knees dirty for … “

The sound of the doorbell clanged in the hall. The girls jumped off the sofa and ran off, yelping excitedly. Mycroft heaved a sigh of relief. Well. That had been a most interesting conversation, but one he could have certainly done without at half past seven in the morning. On the third day of Christmas.

His hands were shaking. As he clasped them, he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the window—his own fevered eyes inspected him out of a face that waxed ashen against the darkness outside. He, Cook and the two hired helps were the only ones awake in the house now his infernal cousins had left. Ample time left to quell the rush of mental images the girls’ wanton yapping had aroused in him. Pouring himself some more coffee Mycroft replayed the conversation in his mind. He deliberately dwindled at large upon what should have offended him the most: the use of swear words and inappropriate language by members of his family, the casual way they’d foulmouthed his mother, and their lewd assessment of his brother, commenting on his qualities in such a casual way. He hated them for having planted in his mind the idea of Sherlock on his knees, fellating his dorm mates, wiping his mouth as one staggered away with a dazed look of contentment on his features while the next one lined himself up in eager expectation. 

Mycroft picked up his newspaper and tried to engage himself in its contents once more, but the letters danced before his eyes. He was confined to a corner in the dorm, balling up his fists in impotent rage at the sight of his brother dealing pleasures to others that ought to be dealt to Mycroft and Mycroft alone. Not so impotent, then. The outrageous scenery of debauchery starring the object of Mycroft’s darkest masturbatory fantasies had done its insidious work and his groin was tingling in anticipation. _Oh, damn!_

Damn those stupid girls and their idle, licentious talk disturbing his carefully crafted early-morning hour. Folding the paper Mycroft rose. For a moment he contemplated going up to his room to service himself and get rid of the craving he felt pooling deep in his belly but no—he wasn’t going to give himself over to his illicit depraved thoughts about Sherlock, not beneath their parents’ roof. He would go for a walk instead. Hopefully the taste of some fresh cold air would chase away the unpleasant aftertaste from a conversation that had been sprung upon him and the ensuing disruption of sensual visions featuring Sherlock. Mycroft deposited the paper on the side table and walked out of the room to the vestibule to don his coat and scarf. The weather had been consistently dry for the past few days so he trusted he didn’t need to put on a pair of Wellington boots for a ramble across the estate’s grounds.

Outside on the terrace he stood quiet for a moment, breathing in deeply, filling his lungs with the sharp, cool air. He felt much better already. It was still dark and bitterly cold. The starry frost crystals covering the flagstones beneath his feet twinkled and winked up at him in the soft glow of the moonlight caressing them. Mycroft swivelled his gaze towards the east but could detect no glimmer of sunlight yet.

Nevertheless he walked down the steps and set off in that direction. A broad path swivelled around the house and led across the estate right to the old gate in the eastern wall. Mycroft would go there and watch the sun rise over the downs. There was enough light for him to negotiate that route. Cheered by the prospect, Mycroft set himself a brisk pace. It was a good two miles to the gate. He’d weary himself out with some _healthy_ exercise.

The bracing air soon drove most of his cousins’ _tête-à-tête_ from his mind. The path wove through a copse of beech trees, the dry leaves on the ground rustling with the sounds of small animals seeking shelter for the coming day. Mycroft smiled. Man had indeed roamed far from his origins, welcoming the day where so many animals preferred the night. A remnant of the twins’ unpleasant chitchat fleeted through his brain: _doing the nasty_. Whatever had possessed them to describe in such a manner the thoroughly fulfilling experience a well-conducted sexual encounter between two people could be? Even the lowliest animals brought more dignity to their couplings than those girls were likely to, if Mycroft was to judge them by their own words. Mycroft could grant them some small allowance for the need to outdo each other in their use of obscene language, but the sad restriction of their general attitude remained.

Nicholas Mede and he had considered themselves to be genuinely in love. Later they’d laughed about their misapprehension and parted as good friends, thanking each other for the pleasures dealt and received. And Christ, the boy had been beautiful. Though Edward had been good-looking as well. 

Well, he’d considered all his lovers attractive as they were all cast in Sherlock’s image, the gypsums of the glorious original; and in taking up with them Mycroft had sought the nearest permutation to the union he could never attain.

Ahead of him Mycroft could detect the outline of the crumbling old wall surrounding the estate. Behind it a faint smear of red added drama to the silvery blackness of the retreating night. The temperature had actually dropped while he walked. Thrusting his hands into his pockets Mycroft quickened his pace. The last time he had been this far from the house must have been over five years ago, back when Sherlock had still been an inquisitive twelve-year old. The boy had become interested in soil compositions all of a sudden and had goaded Mycroft into a stroll over the downs in search of new samples. 

When Mycroft came home for the Christmas season half a year later his affectionate younger brother had morphed into an extremely rude and reticent teenager. On Boxing Day that year they had clashed violently, shouting at each other in the blue morning room and upsetting their parents’ guests. Mycroft apologised sincerely to his parents afterwards for losing his temper so completely in front of others. The incident had been a profound lesson to him: he resolved to never allow something like that to happen again. Since then all interaction between Sherlock and him had ceased. 

Three years later Mycroft had chanced upon Sherlock at the small lake that lay to the west of the house. He’d walked over in his dressing gown and with a towel slung over his shoulder, relishing the thought of his swim, and had been unprepared for the view of his brother rising from the waters, unruly curls plastered to his head and his swimming shorts clinging to his narrow hips. He’d thrown Mycroft the look of disdain he’d already spent years perfecting, and stooped to pick up his towel from the grass. “What are you looking at,” he’d huffed in the deep baritone that had succeeded his squeaky child’s voice, then sauntered off, leaving Mycroft gaping after him. 

The beneficent veil covering his eyes had been cruelly torn away that afternoon. In the water, near the thatch of reed, Mycroft had pleasured himself with the image of Sherlock burning on the inside of his eyelids—though he bitterly opposed the usage of the word pleasure. The all-consuming need for Sherlock he’d felt, the desire to kiss him, to throw him on the ground and overpower him, to _possess_ him, oh god! It had been so wrong and he’d loathed himself as he’d come hard to the fantasy of Sherlock writhing beneath him, spurring him on.

Thank god Sherlock had insisted on remaining his taciturn self, a petulant look moulded permanently to his features. During the next two years he’d become even more handsome, at least in Mycroft’s opinion, and he guessed his cousin’s qualification of Sherlock as ”a dishy fucker” expressed the same sentiment, but the further improvement in his looks contrasted sharply with the continuing absence of good manners. No one could object to Mycroft’s preference to shun his brother’s presence, as no one was very happy to have Sherlock dispel the pleasant atmosphere in a room by barging in to crash on a sofa with an attitude of intense annoyance towards the other occupants.

Mycroft sighed. _Damn his brother. And damn Edward for forcing Mycroft’s hand, denying him the means of curtailing his obsession in a manner that was not frowned upon by society; well, a greater part of society._

Two months ago he had broken up with Edward. The man had left him no other option. Ignoring Mycroft’s warnings not to, he’d kept introducing work-related topics into the bedroom. As they lay spent, he would break the pleasurable spell they’d cast over themselves by asking what it was Mycroft did exactly. His prompting was accompanied by the promise to tell tales about his career at MI5. This breach of moral conduct affronted Mycroft’s beliefs about serving Queen and Country to the core. Besides, Mycroft already knew all there was to know about Edward, be it business or pleasure. 

Ending the relationship after one and a half years was not easy. Mycroft had been, and still was, rather fond of Edward, who was a resourceful lover and the owner of a very talented tongue as long as it was put to use in a manner that didn’t require it to form speech. His upper lip boasted a gracious cupid bow, almost as perfect as Sherlock’s, and Mycroft loved looking down at Edward’s mouth as it stretched itself around him, while carding his hand through the dark strands that graced his lover’s head.

Besides, he didn’t like sleeping alone. The comfort of another body to snuggle up against at night was one of his deepest pleasures. The parting had, however, been necessary, and thus Mycroft had prepared the interview in his usual meticulous manner. As expected Edward had started to shout that he would raise hell, inform Mycroft’s superiors of his inclinations, and go to the press. In lieu of answering Mycroft had shown Edward the file containing the collected evidence on the lifestyle and insalubrious dealings of his elder brother and various other family members. 

Poor Edward had turned speechless while flicking through the rather thick stack of papers and buried his face in his palms. “Christ, I’ve been fucking a machine all these years,” Mycroft had heard him mutter. The epithet hadn’t affronted him. In his work he _was_ a machine: industrious, reliable, and efficient. A high-functioning machine though, bringing along the advantages of an extremely clever and flexible mind. Edward’s desire to wag his tongue at inopportune moments had provoked Mycroft to create his little anti-blackmail hand grenade. He would have never assembled it if Edward hadn’t been the one wishing to introduce inflammable material between the sheets.

The next minute Edward had stalked to the door, and ten seconds later the front door slammed shut, confirming the end of the Edward-episode and the prospect of easy, uncomplicated couplings in the foreseeable future. 

The ironwork of the gate rose before Mycroft. Behind it the sun had started rising like a fiery red ball bobbing on the undulating sea of the frozen downs beneath a sky that was soft and pink like a flamingo feather. 

Since his last visit to the spot all those years ago nature had overtaken the gate in an abundant manner. The old man’s beard and brambles that had threatened to overgrow the gates had indeed conquered it. Six years ago he and Sherlock had been able to push the gates open with their combined effort, but now Mycroft found the ironwork wouldn’t yield, locked in place by strong tendrils. He decided to make do with watching through the gate instead. The red ball freed itself from the rippling hills and set about painting the sky with splashes of lemon and purple before choosing to go chase after the moon and leave the sky to decide for itself which colour it would assume today. An invigorating icy blue was elected, contrasting nicely with the sparkling virginal white veil that had laid itself down over the earth during the night. It didn’t look like it would yield to the sun’s tugging soon, should the sun have decided to look for another playmate.

Mycroft breathed in deeply several times while his eyes were feasting on the landscape. Maybe he should be grateful to his cousins for agitating him despite the disturbing images they had brought about. If their awful chatter hadn’t annoyed him so much he wouldn’t have come out here, and would have missed out on this grand spectacle.

With those thoughts he pivoted to start the trek back to the house. Just four more days to ogle Sherlock’s figure furtively and greedily stack up on film slices of visual stimulation; then he would be free to flee back to London once more, and pretend his shameful secret didn’t exist.

Nearing the house Mycroft saw the breakfast room was already brimming over with people. His great-aunt Augusta noticed him and made to open one of the French doors for him, but he gestured at her that he would walk around the building and go in through the front door. While making for the front of the house, Mycroft decided at the last moment to widen his approach by going through the stand of trees that rose directly opposite the left wing. He loved looking at the house from the darkness the copse provided, the elegant rising of the greyish tree trunks imitated by the slender sandstone pillars on the side of the front door.

Every now and then Daddy would threaten he was taking down the great beeches as they were standing too close to the house. Both Mummy and Mycroft opposed him passionately. His father was actually right—the general aspect of the house was impeded by the encroaching trees, but they were so beautiful; and besides, they had _always been there_.

As a child Mycroft had spent hours at a time hidden amidst the trees. They formed a perfect vantage point for observing all the comings and goings at the house whilst one remained unseen. Their great leafy crowns provided that wing of the house with coolness and shade in the summer, and Mycroft remembered whole afternoons lazed away by the family beneath the leafy boughs, the only one hurrying to and fro the harassed looking Cook who kept providing them with fruitcake, stacks of cucumber sandwiches, and freshly baked scones with her own clotted cream and strawberry jam.

Mycroft extracted his right hand from his pocket and laid it against the nearest tree trunk. He looked up at the house and was struck once more with the pleasantness of its general aspect. The soft golden-yellow of the sandstone glowed in the morning sun, contrasting with the prim white of the woodwork and the wide lintel that ran beneath the roof. The staircase added grandeur, but didn’t offend by an overly ostentatious mien, it was the _right_ sort of grandeur. Like the whole house, really, proving to Mycroft his forebears had been as sensible as his own father and he.

However, the best feature of the house was the really high windows. They broke the stoic solidity of the walls, ensuring the building soared rather than squatted. ‘Raise yourself, reach for the skies, aim for what’s best and brightest’ was the message those windows had always conveyed to Mycroft. Now each window in the façade was empty, everyone being assembled in the breakfast room. Mycroft let his gaze travel slowly over the high glass surfaces, enjoying their gleaming smoothness only broken by the thin white slats, and the inviting look they provided into each room. 

His eye caught a movement behind one of the left-wing-windows on the upper story. He focused; it was one of the windows of Sherlock’s room. Now Mycroft could discern his brother had appeared in front of it, vaguely staring out with a sleepy frown on his face, his hands deep in the pockets of his purple dressing gown, clutching the panels shut. _Oh god._ Beneath the tree Mycroft put his own hand back into his coat pocket. 

Sherlock’s eyes roamed the park, over the lawn stretching away to the right and in front of the house to the copse where Mycroft stood hidden and back again. He lifted his arms, causing the panels of his dressing gown to fall open, and stretched them far above, throwing his head back to give himself over to the luxury of the exercise.

In the frame of the window the long line of his body flowed, shining pale between the deep purple, interrupted only by the thatch of dark curls at the top of his legs from which his morning erection sprang forward. 

He reached upwards even higher, probably balancing on his toes. Mycroft looked, shuffling from one foot to another, his eyes roving over the display. Inwardly he cursed.

 _Christ, the shamelessness. Standing there in front of the window, perfectly unconcerned. How... how… Sherlock shouldn’t stand there to let the whole world look at him. Not like that. Like a slave in the market. By Jove, he_ was _offering himself like a slave in the market. A bed slave._ His _bed slave. If wishes were horses… Oh, but just_ look _at him. Isn’t he exquisite?_

A twig snapped and Mycroft froze. Behind the glass Sherlock remained in position. Mycroft shook himself. What was he thinking? Of course Sherlock hadn’t heard. And Mycroft shouldn’t stand here. He should slant his gaze now, cross the lawn and walk up the stairs and through the front door and join his family. Stop himself from looking and go… go anywhere else rather than here.

Instead he stayed put at his vantage point beneath the trees, staring up at his brother. He found he was unable to avert his eyes; they were glued to Sherlock’s window, to the enchanting picture it presented.

Sherlock fell back onto his heels again. He lowered his arms, clasping his hands at the back of his neck briefly before one hand was laid against the side of his throat with the air of a Parisian _coquette_. The skin was fondled absentmindedly and in his coat pocket Mycroft felt his fingers caressing the warm soft flannel of the lining, for a moment imagining it to be skin, the pliant, sweet skin on Sherlock’s neck.

The hand travelled down past the line of the dressing gown, trailing a path across the chest that was still boyishly thin but also well-toned – from all the boxing and fencing and swimming no doubt. Mycroft’s eyes followed the journey; he could feel the slender fingers ghosting over his own flesh, beneath all the layers of clothing he had buried himself in that morning: vest, shirt, tie, waistcoat, jacket, scarf, coat. The fingers circled a nipple, pinched lightly. Mycroft was convinced he felt the quick swipe of a clever tongue – he shivered at the moistness of the breath in the cool outside air – and then the hand dropped lower, taking a hold of the erect member that stood awaiting the touch.

The sight of his brother’s hand on himself made Mycroft gasp. He retreated further among the trees to hide behind a thick trunk. Speaking in a stern voice he inwardly admonished himself. Sherlock might be breaching all boundaries exposing himself brazenly behind that window, not caring one whit whether anyone was looking or not, but Mycroft definitely shouldn’t have been standing here, looking up at the picture his brother presented and enjoying the spectacle, even if he weren’t lusting after him. _Christ yes, lusting after him, but he had been doing little else for years now, hadn’t he? Sherlock was the one exhibiting himself like this and Mycroft did him no harm by observing and… oh god…_ All the King’s horses couldn’t have dragged Mycroft away from the mesmerising view of his naked brother who now stood fingering his erection absentmindedly, cradling it in the nest of his fingers and languidly moving his thumb up and down.

_You’re only making it worse staying here. Be sensible and get away. Don’t look! But Christ, he’s stunning! Not of this world. Oh god, he’s even more beautiful than he was three years ago. And what good is it to you? Wipe the image from your mind. Walk away now. Run!_

Ignoring his own good advice Mycroft stayed put. His body, which normally was nothing but an extension of his formidable willpower, wouldn’t obey him. It had taken on a life of its own, responding strongly to the visual stimulation it had yearned for and was unexpectedly receiving, and Mycroft wasn’t even dismayed when his right hand emerged from the safety of his coat pocket to dive beneath the coat’s panel and palm his own member.

Sherlock’s other hand had fallen down as well and was now cradling his testicles. His eyelids fluttered as he started stroking himself in earnest, searching for the right pace, rocking his hips.

Beneath the sanctity of the trees Mycroft’s hands fumbled with his fly, his eyes stuck to the enthralling film projected before him. Finally he managed to pull down the zip and free his penis from the prison of Egyptian brushed cotton it had been desperate to get out of. He set his hand to work, oblivious to his surroundings. Oblivious to the picture he had to present: the minor Government official, masturbating out in the open to the sight of his sibling pleasuring himself.

Behind the window Sherlock’s hand had sped up, moving up and down with fierce dedication. His eyes had fallen closed and his lips were half-parted, forming words Mycroft couldn’t read. A blush had bloomed in the middle of his chest, the colour a faint echo of the flushed darkness of his member standing out against the paleness of his pelvis and of his hand that was tugging wildly now. His hips were bucking in a tight rhythm, riding his hand expertly and Mycroft felt his own hips respond to the thrusts, imitating his brother’s every move, abandoning himself to the burning heat that radiated outwards from his groin, overwhelming him. 

In that moment he wasn’t standing beneath the trees, secretly ogling Sherlock, but standing with him in his room, and it was his hand on Sherlock, his thumb smearing the pre-come over Sherlock’s glans, stroking him while his lips were caressing his brother’s throat, licking that titillating little mole at the right side that heightened the attractiveness of the long expanse of pale skin by marring it. Sherlock, meanwhile, had taken hold of Mycroft and was repaying the compliment, murmuring nonsense in Mycroft’s ear with his deep, throaty voice. Exciting nonsense, goading him on, his breath hitching while Mycroft worked him, panting… swearing… Mycroft was kissing Sherlock with wild abandon, tasting the sweaty skin beneath his ear, seeking Sherlock’s tongue inside his hot, sweet mouth… Their wrists were rubbing in their effort to finish the other off, the heat deliciously adding to the sensation. Mycroft felt the need tightening at the bottom of his spine, the delightful rush of the blood to his groin.

High above Sherlock’s eyes flew open wide and Mycroft could see him gasp as he came, his ejaculate shooting out of his penis in thick spurts, hitting the windowpane to paint an abstract in muted white. The sight was too much and shaking on his legs Mycroft spent himself, his body quivering with the surge to get lost in total abandon. He heard the primitive grunt of gratification free itself from his throat as his penis pulsed in his hand. His semen splattered the tree trunk, his whole being – his mind – freed with the impudence of his act, of _their_ act, for in a twisted way he had been having sex with Sherlock, here beneath the ancient trees. He ought to have felt ashamed for so many reasons, but all he felt while he stood resting his forehead against the smooth bark of the great beech was a deep glow of satisfaction. He smiled to himself. 

God, he was done for, utterly spent. The best orgasm he’d ever experienced. As it was bound to be, seeing as it was inspired by the sight of his adored brother bringing himself to completion. Who would have ever thought Mycroft would be so lucky? Regret was already building up inside him, but he willed it away. He fully realised this had been a once in a lifetime thing. It would never happen again. It _should_ never happen again. Still, no one had seen him so no one was any the wiser. Just him. A secret. Another one, and one that wasn’t much worse than what he already carried in his heart. Besides, everyone had secrets. He should know, it was his business to know other people’s secrets. No one, however, would ever know his secret, _this secret_.

Mycroft felt in the pocket of his coat for a Kleenex and cleaned himself as best as he could. He’d have to take another shower. After he tucked his member safely back into his pants and zipped up again, he checked his clothes for suspicious spots but couldn’t find any. Satisfied with the results of his inspection he peeked around the tree trunk to check whether Sherlock had turned away from the window yet. He looked up and felt Sherlock’s eyes bore into his. Mycroft froze; he stood caught like a little boy under his brother’s scrutiny. 

Behind the window a superior smile settled over Sherlock’s features and he raised his eyebrows. In that moment Mycroft knew Sherlock had known all along that Mycroft had stood there watching him. His gaze had spotted Mycroft underneath the trees when his eyes had been straying to the garden, and he had decided to put on a _show_ for Mycroft, inviting him to participate should he wish to. Mycroft’s hand sought for the solid support of the tree. He panted, still looking up at the figure behind the window. 

The eyebrows had resumed their usual position. Sherlock extended his hand and he laid his fingertips against the window, dragging them through the globs of sperm that were still clinging to the glass, changing the picture to a child’s finger painting. He brought the hand up to his throat and started smearing the fluid over himself, while he inclined his head in a gesture indicating Mycroft should come up and join him.

Mycroft swallowed, his hand going for his own throat, adjusting his tie to give himself some air. _This isn’t happening…_ He looked around the empty garden, looked up towards all the empty windows of the house, safe the one where Sherlock was just turning away to go and open the door of his room to him.

One last second of indecision, and then Mycroft was moving in the direction of the front door. He’d go up to Sherlock’s room and… Oh, he was going to kiss him, he was going to crush those lips until they glowed, puffed up and bruised, but after he’d thrown Sherlock on the bed first to caress him and have him look up at Mycroft, eyelids fluttering. He’d do it, and consequences be damned. He’d think about those later, think them through. 

But for now, he’d do it. Do whatever Sherlock wanted him to do.


End file.
